Loss
by allthingsdecent
Summary: After Bombshells, House discovers that Cuddy was keeping a big secret from him.
1. Chapter 1

**You'd think after my team won the SUPER BOWL (woohoo! Go Ravens!), I'd be in the mood to write some cheery fluff. You'd think wrong. This is hella angsty. Just throw it on the pile with the rest of my post-Bombshells fics. Warning: CD (Contains Dominika). But only briefly.- atd**

He hated her.

He hated her because she had blindsided him, sucker punched him, kicked him when he was down.

He hated her because she was so unfazed by it all, stomping around the hospital in those three-inch heels of hers, not a hair out of place, acting as if she didn't have a care in the world. (Okay, there had been the tiniest chink in her armor when he had committed his Green Card revenge—but even that was hardly the histrionics he had hoped for. By the next day, she was as poised and polished as ever.)

He hated her for seeing the worst in him, for not believing him. (He had no chance of believing in himself if she didn't believe in him. No shot.)

He hated her for leaving him alone.

He hated her for lying to him, saying that she didn't want him to change when, in fact, nothing he ever did was good enough.

He hated her for the life she and Rachel were going to lead— without him.

But mostly he hated her because he still loved her.

#####

Even before they were dating, House had kept tabs on her schedule. He knew when she went to yoga, he knew when she jogged; hell, he even knew when she deposited her pay checks in the bank. And nothing had changed since she dumped his ass.

So he knew that today was her follow-up appointment with Dr. Spiegel, her surgeon.

It was routine, really. Just a check up to make sure that there were no complications from the operation. The odds of a second mass growing were virtually nonexistent. And yet. . . he had to know.

So he waited for Spiegel to go to the men's room, followed him in, managed to arrange it so that he was washing his hands next to him at the sink.

"You saw Dr. Cuddy today, right?" he said, as casual as you please.

"You know I can't answer that," Spiegel said, pumping soap from the dispenser into his palms.

"I know," House said. "But she and I aren't exactly—what's the phrase I'm looking for?—_speaking to each other_ right now, so I thought maybe you could do a colleague a solid and give me a little peace of mind."

Spiegel side-eyed him. Then he reached over and grabbed a paper towel.

"She's fine," he said, wiping his hands, with a tiny smile. "But you didn't hear it from me."

House exhaled slightly. He nodded, said nothing.

As Spiegel got to the bathroom door, he said: "House, I'm so sorry."

House gave a shrug. "It's not like anyone ever thought I was actually going to _keep_ the girl."

Spiegel shook his head.

"No, I meant about the baby."

House's mouth dropped open. He stared at him.

"The _baby_?"

Suddenly, Spiegel turned white.

"You knew Dr. Cuddy was pregnant, right?"

House gulped, collected himself.

"Of course I did," he said.

"Good," Spiegel said. "Because for a second there, I thought I had really just stepped in it."

Luckily for House, he was skilled at hiding his emotions.

"But Dr. Cuddy and I haven't been communicating much, as we established earlier," he said cautiously. "She never told me the gender of the child."

"I really . . .I shouldn't."

"Hey, it was my kid, too."

Spiegel pursed his lips.

"It was a girl," he said. "I truly am sorry."

And he left the bathroom.

House stood there, paralyzed in that spot. He felt weak. His leg bucked a bit.

He went into a stall, locked the door, sat down on the toilet, put his head in his hands.

And Dr. Gregory House—cynic, misanthrope, uncaring ass—wept for the loss of his child.

######

Cuddy was in her office, schmoozing a couple of donors, when House barged in.

"I need to talk to you," he barked.

She was shocked. House had misbehaved in front of donors before–his recent antics with the remote control plane, the infamous laser pointer incident. But this was a first.

Not only was it incredibly rude and inappropriate, it was artless.

"Not right now, House," she said.

"It can't wait," House said.

"Is it a patient emergency?"

"No."

"Then it can wait."

She smiled apologetically at the donors, who were beginning to look a little uncomfortable with this unexpected intrusion.

"Dr. Cuddy, I need to talk to you NOW," he said through gritted teeth.

"Dr. House, I'm obviously in the middle of something," she replied, with a fake smile.

He paused, seemed to consider leaving, then changed his mind and shouted:

"Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"

The silence in the room actually had a weight, a stunned presence of its own. The donors gaped at each other, appalled.

"Excuse me one moment," Cuddy said.

She shot up from her desk, strode over to House, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the hall.

"Are you out of your mind?" she snapped.

"Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant," he repeated.

"How did you even know?" she said.

"Never mind that," House said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"This is not the right time to discuss that," she said.

"Obviously, to you, NEVER was going to the be the right time to discuss it."

"House, these are very important donors. I promise I'll come find you after this meeting."

"And I want to talk about this now," House said stubbornly.

"House! I know you're upset, but you can't be so unprofessional. I could have you fired you for this."

"And then you would complete the Evil Bitch trifecta," House sneered. "Dump me, lie about my dead baby, and fire me. Medusa has nothing on you, honey."

And he limped away angrily.

Cuddy felt tears stinging her eyes that she hastily blinked away. She took a deep breath and re-entered her office.

"Now where were we?" she said, smiling.

#####

She had dreaded this moment.

It was, of course, impossible to keep a secret from House—about tiny things, let alone huge ones.

She was angry about his intrusion, but knew that she owed him an explanation.

As she made her way down the hall, she felt physically ill. It wasn't just that she was about to have a very upsetting conversation. It was the fact that—save for a few exchanged insults and a handful of painfully awkward medical consults—she and House had barely spoken since the breakup. This was hardly a way to re-open those lines of communication.

But she steeled herself and entered his office.

"Is now a good time?" she said.

"I don't know," he said. "You tell me. This doesn't seem particularly high on your list of priorities."

"I should've told you," she said, sitting down.

"Ya think?" he snarled.

"I was. . .afraid."

He folded his arms. Said nothing.

"I didn't know how you'd react to the pregnancy," she said shakily. "And to be honest, I never thought I'd go to term. I'm 42. And I've miscarried before."

House's eyes narrowed accusingly.

"Not yours," she clarified hastily. "Back when I was doing In Vitro."

House swallowed hard, kept staring at her.

She looked at the floor.

"So I. . .just decided to wait until I was in at least in my third month. And then I got sick. And then I lost the baby. And then, we, well . . ." She bit her lip. "We weren't seeing each other any more. And it just didn't seem necessary to tell you."

"It didn't seem _necessary_?" he said, his voice positively dripping with anger.

"What was the point?" she said.

"The _point_? It didn't occur to you that maybe I would want to know that my girlfriend was pregnant? That I might've wanted to _grieve_ for the loss of my daughter?"

She looked at him. Her lip was trembling, but her face was defiant.

"Frankly, no," she said.

"Then fuck you and get out of my office," House said.

#####

It's amazing the lies we can tell ourselves.

Cuddy had convinced herself that the reason she wasn't telling House about her pregnancy was because there was no point in getting his hopes up. After all, she was likely to lose the baby anyway.

But that was only partly true.

In truth, she had no idea how House would react to the news. He had grown to love Rachel in his own way, but he certainly wasn't the paternal type. What if he didn't want a baby? What if, God forbid, he thought she was trying to trap him?

Then she had to ask herself: What was more important to her—having her own biological child, a child she had dreamed of having (not just any child, but _his_ child)? Or staying with House? If House really didn't want the baby, what then? Would she . . . abort it? Or would she take Rachel and her unborn daughter and leave House and never look back?

So she delayed telling him. Delayed making any decisions at all. She knew how insanely observant he was, so she even half-emptied a box of tampons, complained of cramps. She didn't want him getting suspicious.

She intentionally deceived him.

It was all a moot point in the end. She lost the baby before she even had the surgery, during that time when House was missing in action. It filled her with dread, made her think of death—her own death. Like she couldn't sustain a living thing.

She had cried so much in those days in the hospital—cried out of fear for her own life, cried for Rachel, cried for the baby that never was, cried because man she loved was not at her side.

But what she did was wrong. She should've told him.

She knew it was wrong. And she knew that she owed him an apology. One without rancor or defensiveness. She was going to have to absorb his anger and push through it and apologize for her lies.

He deserved that much.

#####

The hallway smelled of cooking—something spicy and exotic. There was unfamiliar music, disco of some sort, coming from House's apartment.

She frowned, knocked on the door.

Of course, the whore answered.

"Dr. Cuddy!" she said, with stupid cheer.

"I need to talk to House," Cuddy said, stepping past her. "Is he here?"

"He's in his room," Dominika said. Then she whispered: "But he's in very grouchy mood tonight."

Cuddy gave an annoyed shrug.

She walked past Dominika and knocked on the door to House's bedroom.

"Go away," he said.

"House, it's me," she said.

He opened the door. He was wearing pajamas and a flannel robe and holding a bottle of scotch. Her presence obviously rattled him. His neck turned bright red.

"I've come to apologize," Cuddy said.

House peered at her. Then glanced at Dominika, who was lurking in the hallway.

"Scram," he said to Dominika.

"You want for me to leave you and Dr. Cuddy alone?" Dominika said.

"Brilliant deduction," he said.

"But where should Dominika go?"

"I don't know," he said. "Go to your boyfriend's house. Go to a strip club. Go to a Denny's. Just get the hell out of here. And please turn off that that God forsaken music on your way out."

Dominika sniffed, in a huffy sort of way. Then she turned the volume up on the stereo and stormed out of the apartment.

Cuddy walked over to the stereo, turned it off.

"She's a delight," she said.

"At least she's honest with me," he said.

"Okay, I deserved that," Cuddy said. Her voice softened: "Can we talk? I mean, really talk?"

"Talk," he said tersely.

"Can we at least sit down? And maybe you can get me something to drink?"

He clenched his jaw a bit. Then got her a glass, poured a healthy shot of what he was drinking, handed it to her. (He didn't bother to dilute it with any water or ice, even though he knew the scotch was too strong for her.)

She took the glass anyway, sat on the couch, took a long sip.

He sat next to her warily. There was a tiny hole in his pajama leg. She became fixated on that hole. She wondered if Dominika could sew.

Finally, she spoke.

"I want to say, first of all, I'm sorry. What I did was wrong."

"No shit," he said. He was still pissed.

_Push through his anger_. . .

"I was afraid that you wouldn't want the baby. Or, I was afraid that you _would_ want it, and that I'd lose it. I was just . . .afraid. But that's no excuse. And I apologize."

He seemed slightly more satisfied with this.

"But why didn't you trust me?" he said. "We could've dealt with your fear—together."

Cuddy involuntarily snorted.

"Yeah, because you handle my fear so well," she said.

Then she caught herself.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm pretty sure it's exactly what you meant," House muttered.

"But that's not it. . .that's not why I didn't tell you. I think. . . if I'm truly going to be honest, I feared rejection."

"Rejection?"

"That you wouldn't want to have a baby with me," she admitted.

He looked at her. There was something unnervingly tender in his eyes.

"Of course I would've wanted to have a baby with you," he said softly.

"_Of course_?" Cuddy said, balking a bit. "How on earth could I possibly know that?"

"Because she would've been ours. Something we made together."

Gregory House, the man who believed that life began at birth and not a moment sooner, the man who mocked other people for calling a fetus a baby—was calling their two-month-old embryo "she."

Cuddy had promised herself she wouldn't cry. So much for that promise.

"House. . ." she said.

"What about you?" he said, his eyes widening. "Did you want her?"

She looked at the floor.

"I wanted her," she said. "More than anything in this world."

"Even with a fuck up like me?"

She smiled, sniffed a little.

"Even with a fuck up like you," she said.

Then she looked at him.

"_Especially _with you," she said.

House scratched his beard, absorbing what she had just said.

"And if you hadn't lost the baby, where would we be now?" he said.

"Are you still on drugs in this magical alternate universe?" Cuddy said, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

"I wasn't _on_ drugs," House said testily. "I took drugs to help me through a rough time. There's a difference." Then he sighed, rubbed his hands on his pajama legs. "_Now_ I'm on drugs."

Cuddy thought about it.

"If I was still pregnant, I guess I might've tried a little harder to make it work," she said.

"Well, fuck me. . ." House said, almost to himself, leaning back in the couch. "Fuck me."

Her head flopped back on the couch, too. It made a tiny thud as it landed against the leather.

"We've really made a mess of things, huh?" she said, with a weary smile.

"Yeah," he said. Then he tilted his head toward her. "Cuddy, if I could do it all over, I'd . . ."

"I know," she said. "Me too."  
They both fell into a kind of heavy silence.

"What are you thinking right now?" Cuddy said.

"You don't want to know," House said.

"Actually, I do."

"I was thinking how beautiful you would look pregnant."

It felt like a slap.

"Why would you say that?" she said, tears burning at her eyes. "That's a cruel thing to say."

"Because it's the truth," he said. "I was thinking that. And I was thinking how beautiful our little girl would be."

"House, why. . .?"

But she couldn't finish her sentence, because she had begun to cry—real tears now, the kind that made talking impossible.

On instinct, he reached for and held her close, letting her tears soak his bathrobe, holding her steady as she shook—and then suddenly, he found her mouth, and they were kissing. They had kissed once, years ago, after the loss of another child. This felt the same in some way—fumbling, grasping, needy—like it was the only way they knew how to express themselves. But that night, they had stopped with a kiss. Now, they were experienced lovers. So taking comfort in each other meant sex.

House picked her up and carried her to the bedroom and they made love. And there was something so easy and familiar and safe about losing herself in his arms, in his taste, in his smell. She had never stopped wanting him—not in that way at least. But she immediately felt guilty and full of regret. This was noy what she had planned. It was supposed be a reasonable talk, an apology, between two mature adults.

Why did everything always have to be so complicated with him?

"I should go," she said, fumbling for her underpants, which had been kicked to the very edge of the bed.

"No," he said, reaching for her arm. "Stay."

"I can't," Cuddy said. She shook free of his hand, got out of bed, began searching for her clothing in the dark.

"Is it Dominika?" he said, a bit desperately. "Because I can call her and tell her not to come home. . . Ever."

"No, it's not about her," Cuddy said. "House, we were both sad and we took comfort in each other, that's all. That's all this was. It doesn't mean anything more."

"It means something to me," he said.

He was watching her get dressed from the bed. He was shirtless, his head propped on his elbow

"House. . .I've got to go."

He started to follow her out of the room.

"No," she said. "Stay. I'll let myself out."

She went into the living room, got her purse and her coat. Just as she was about to leave, a set of keys jiggled in the door.

Of course. Dominika.

"Dr. Cuddy! You're still here!" Dominika said.

She assessed Cuddy's appearance—wild hair, smudged makeup, the guilty look of retreat. She immediately knew.

"I made a mistake," Cuddy said—and shoved past her into the hallway.

To be continued. . .


	2. Masks

Cuddy was sitting at her desk, trying to make sense of an utterly impenetrable spread sheet, when her cell phone rang.

She looked down at the number and frowned: Rachel's pre-school.

"Hello?" she said anxiously.

"Dr. Cuddy, this is Denise Martin over at Fernhill Day School."

The principal. Never good.

"Hi Denise. Is everything okay? Is Rachel okay?"

"She's fine. Everyone's fine—physically, that is. But there was an . . . incident."

"An incident?"

"Rachel, she, well—I don't quite know how to say this—she bit Ellie Wagner in the playground."

"She _bit _her?" Cuddy said, aghast. "Is Ellie going to be okay?"

"She's fine. Like I said, no one was hurt. But obviously, Rachel's behavior is a bit alarming."

"I'll say," Cuddy said, furrowing her brow. "But my Rachel wouldn't hurt a fly. That doesn't sound like her at all."

"It's _not_ like her," Denise assured. "Except, well, lately. . . we have been noticing some behavior problems. She's been spending more time alone. And when she's with the other children, there have been some . . . skirmishes. Until now, nothing physical, just arguments over toys, best friends, playground turf—that sort of thing."

"Skirmishes?" Cuddy said. This was all news to her. Rachel hadn't said a word.

"I hate to ask, but is there anything going on at home?" Denise queried. "Any disruptions in Rachel's family life? Any reason why she might be . . . acting out in any way?"

"I had a recent health scare," Cuddy said. "But I kept Rachel pretty much in the dark about it. And I'm fine now."

"Sometimes kids can sense these things," Denise said, skeptically.

Cuddy tapped a pencil on the desk.

"Also. . .I. . .broke up with my boyfriend," she confessed.

"Ahhh," Denise said. _Now_ they were getting somewhere. "Did he live with you guys?"

"Not officially. But for all intents and purposes, I guess. . . yeah."

"And were he and Rachel close?"

Cuddy flashed to a vision of House reading Rachel a story.

"That's not a fire-breathing dragon, silly," Rachel had scolded, playfully hitting him. "It's a bunny!"

"Are you sure?" House said, squinting at the picture. "Because that's a very scary looking bunny."

"Yes," Cuddy said, feeling sad. "They were close."

"Breakups can be hard on kids, too," Denise said. "It doesn't have to be a biological parent. Kids feel the loss. Maybe you should talk to her."

"I will," Cuddy said. "Do you need me to come get her now?"

"No," Denise said. "She's fine. She's having her juice box and then it's nap time. I just thought you'd want to know. Obviously, if it happens again, we're going to have to start looking into more serious disciplinary measures."

"Of course," Cuddy said. "I promise it won't happen again. Thanks Denise."

And she hung up.

Cuddy sighed. She had been so wrapped up in managing her own feelings of loss—about the baby, about the breakup—she hadn't even thought about how House's absence might affect Rachel. Her little girl always seemed so resilient to her, so unflappably good-natured. Apparently, Rachel Cuddy had absorbed some of her mother's expert ability to mask pain. . .

A few hours later, Cuddy picked up Rachel from school. Rachel hung her head, her bangs falling into her eyes, and trudged silently beside her.

As Cuddy strapped her into the child seat, Rachel finally blurted out, "I'm sorry, mama."

Cuddy felt a surge of pride that Rachel had brought it up first.

"Why are you sorry, sweetie?" she said.

"I'm sorry I did a bad thing in school and I gotted into trouble."

"You bit Ellie, didn't you?" Cuddy said, tightening the buckles.

"Yes," Rachel said.

"You shouldn't have done that, Rach," Cuddy said, settling behind the steering wheel. "You should never bite or hit anyone. You know better than that."

"I didn't mean it," Rachel said, still hanging her head.

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"She made me sad," Rachel said.

"Sad. . .or _mad?_"

"Sad and mad," Rachel said thoughtfully. "Because she wouldn't play with me."

"Sometimes people don't want to play, baby."

"House always played with me."

So there it was.

"Not always, sweetie. Sometimes his leg hurt, remember? And sometimes he wasn't in the mood."

"But he always did funny things!" Rachel said. "And he read the best stories! And he gave the best secret candy! And he stoled food off my plate and it was funny! And he made the best Wookie noises and they were funny! And he called me Shorty and I liked it!"

She said the words in a rush, as if it was a relief to get it all out.

Cuddy blinked back a tear. She peered at her daughter through the rearview mirror.

"You miss him a lot, huh?" she said quietly.

"Yeah," Rachel muttered, kicking her feet a little.

"So do I, Rach. So do I."

#####

The next day, she bumped into Dr. Spiegel in the hall.

"Hey Lisa," he said.

"Hey Gerry."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." She gave him a curious smile. He had just seen her a few days ago.

"Actually, there was something I've been meaning to talk to you about," he said, nervously.

"Shoot," she said.

"Umm, can we?" And he gestured for her to follow him into the stairwell.

"This is all very cloak and dagger, Gerry," Cuddy said, laughing a bit. "Are you about to tell me the eagle has landed?"

"Actually, I wanted to apologize," he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his lab coat.

"Apologize? What for?"

"I think I may have . . .spoken out of turn."

And suddenly, she knew.

"You told Dr. House about my miscarriage," she said.

"I'm afraid so. He was inquiring about your health and I off-handedly mentioned how sorry I was. . .He _claimed_ that he already knew. But I could tell by the look on his face that he was shocked."

"Dr. House was asking about my health?"

Spiegel smiled.

"For his 'peace of mind,' I think he said."

He'd been such an ass to her these past few weeks. The fact that he had bothered to seek out her surgeon and ask about her follow-up appointment made her heart swell.

"So I guess he didn't tell you that I was the one who said something?" Spiegel said, looking guilty.

"No. House would never rat out a source," Cuddy said.

"He's not so bad is he?" Spiegel said, musingly. "People think he's a colossal ass. . . "

"That's because he _is_ a colossal ass," Cuddy cracked.

"But he has own code. His own kind of integrity."

Cuddy nodded. "That he does," she said.

It had been four days since she'd gone to House's apartment and they'd had sex—and she hadn't seen him since. She actually swung by his office on Monday, but he had apparently called in sick, something he never did. Was he avoiding her? If he was, could she blame him?

Her own feelings literally could not have been more conflicted. Since the breakup, she had grown rather adept at silencing the part of her that ached for him.

But his genuine grief over the miscarriage, his sincerity in wanting something that they "made together," his concern about her health, not to mention the incredible closeness she felt to him when they had sex—"I love you," he had murmured in her ear; "I love you, too" she had murmured back, her brain on autopilot, instantly regretting her words—only confused her further.

And now, of course, here was Rachel—reminding her that House not only _could be_ a good father, in some ways he already was.

She was having these thoughts—en route to a meeting with the hospital lawyers over a potential class action lawsuit involving ill-fitting surgical rods—when she sensedHouse's presence. She looked up. Indeed, he was approaching in the hall. She immediately noticed that his limp was more pronounced than usual. His shirt was buttoned all the way up and he was wearing an overcoat, even though it was 72 degrees in the hospital.

"Are you okay?" she said, rushing up to him.

He looked at her. His face was coated in sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead a bit; counterintuitively, his teeth were chattering.

"Are you sick?" she said. Not caring that she was standing in a crowded hospital hallway—again, autopilot—she reached for his forehead. No fever.

She looked at his eyes.

"You're detoxing," she said, finally getting it.

"Suffice it to say, I gave up Vicodin for lent," he said, with a tiny smile.

"You're not Catholic," she said, smiling back.

"I'm _not_? In that case, can I borrow your prescription pad?"

"You look like shit," she said, inspecting him. "You should probably go home."

"This is me looking good. You should've seen me on Saturday. Very Linda Blair in The Exorcist."

"House, you should've called me," Cuddy said.

"Yeah?" he said, hopefully.

_Shit._

"I would've . . . called Wilson," she said lamely.

House looked down.

"Actually, I called him myself," he said.

"Good," she said. She touched his arm for a moment. "I'm so glad you're getting clean, House. I don't know why you're doing it, but I'm glad. . ."

House gave her a somewhat disappointed look. His face said: You know exactly why I'm doing it.

"Dr. Cuddy, they're ready for you."

They both looked up. It was Cuddy's assistant, poking her head out of the office.

Cuddy nodded.

"Hang in there," Cuddy said to House.

"Like a kitten on a branch," he said and limped away.

Right before she entered her office, she saw him shudder a bit and hug his coat more tightly for warmth.

#####

"What have you done to House?"

Wilson was standing in the doorway to Cuddy's office, his arms folded.

"Me?" Cuddy sputtered. "I haven't done anything."

"He's detoxing. I spent the whole weekend with him. It was unpleasant, to say the least. When I wasn't dodging projectile vomit I was dodging projectile insults."

"He can be a bit blunt when he's strung out," Cuddy admitted.

They exchanged a look, both remembering the time House had lashed out at Cuddy, saying she'd suck as a mother.

"You're a good friend, Wilson. But I don't see what any of this has to do with me," she said.

"When I asked him _why _he was detoxing, he said, and I quote: How can I be responsible for another human life when I'm not responsible for my own?"

Cuddy bit her lip, looked down at her desk.

"Good for him," she said.

"But House doesn't talk that way. _You_ do."

"I swear, I'm not behind this," Cuddy said.

"Then riddle me this: Why was he in the nursery staring at the newborns this morning? With TEARS IN HIS EYES."

"Shut up!" Cuddy said, disbelieving.

"Oh yeah," Wilson said. "We both know that House hates babies. And had his tear ducts removed back in the 80s. So I ask again, What did you do to him?"

"What makes it so sure it's about me?"

Wilson gave an ironic chuckle.

"Cuddy, it's _always_ about you."

#########

Rachel always spent Thursday nights at Aunt Julia's with the kids. Usually, Cuddy took the opportunity to take a bath or read a good book, or even catch up on her season pass of Mad Men.

But she was feeling a bit restless, and had a lot on her mind. So she went to Sullivan's for a drink to sort things out. She was on her second martini when she heard a voice.

"Of all the gin joints around the corner from the hospital in all the world . . ."

She looked up, smiled.

"Hi House," she said.

"Hi Cuddy."

"I was just thinking about you," she admitted.

"And I was just thinking about you!" he said, plopping down on the bar stool next to her. "But that's not really a spoiler alert. Because I'm always thinking about you."

She smiled: It had been a long time since he had flirted with her.

He ordered a scotch.

"You waiting for someone?" he asked.

"Nope. Just here by myself."

"Me too," he said.

"Again, not a spoiler alert," she teased.

"Are you disappointed in me for drinking while I detox from Vicodin?" he said.

"You're addicted to pills," she said charitably. "Not alcohol."

"_Yet_," he said, with a grin. Then he leaned toward her. "So back to the part where you were thinking about me: Did it involve lovingly recreating every moment of last Friday night? Because if so, _weird coincidence, dude_."

"I was thinking that you're a very complicated man," Cuddy admitted.

"Chicks dig that about me," he said.

"I know I did," she said. And then she blushed.

He looked at her. Took a swig of his drink.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, his voice suddenly sincere.

"Of course."

"Why didn't you tell me about the miscarriage?"

"House, we already talked about that! I. . ."

"No, not that one. The first one. When you were doing the IVF treatments."

She nodded slowly, bit on a cocktail straw.

"I guess we just didn't have that kind of friendship then."

"I thought we did," he said, slightly hurt.

"I don't know. You were going through a lot yourself at the time. It was when Tritter launched his one man campaign of terror against you. I guess I didn't want to burden you with my problems."

"I see," he said. And then a troubling thought crossed his mind.

"That day. In the shower. When I told you you'd make a horrible mother? That wasn't. . ."

"Yeah, it was right around that time," Cuddy confessed.

"Fuck," he said, putting his head in his hands. "I'm such an asshole."

"You didn't know," she said.

"For the record, I think you're an incredible mother," he said. "Seriously, the best."

"Thanks," she said. "And for the record, I think you'd make a pretty great dad."

He laughed.

"That's a stretch and we both know it."

"There's more than one way to be a good dad," Cuddy said. "Rachel adores you."

House allowed himself a small smile.

"She told me she misses you," Cuddy said.

"Yeah?" he said—the same hopeful tone as when she suggested she might've helped him detox.

"Yeah," Cuddy said, adding teasingly: "She especially misses all that secret candy you used to give her."

"Busted," House said.

"I already knew," Cuddy said.

And they both laughed.

House looked at Cuddy's glass, which was nearing empty.

"Another round?" he said.

She hesitated. "I should . . .I should probably. . ." She cocked her head toward the door.

He looked down at his own drink, ignoring the fact that she had just intimated she was about to leave.

"You know what I wish?" he said quietly.

"What?"

"I wish I could've been that guy in your life."

"What guy?"

"The guy you trusted. The guy you confided in. The guy who eased your fears."

"You were that guy, House," she said. "Most of the time."

"But I let you down," he said.

"Yes," she conceded. "But I let you down, too."

"Never," he said, staring at her.

"I told you I didn't want you to change," she said. "I lied."

"You couldn't have possibly anticipated the depths of my inadequacy," he said.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, House. You were great. You still are great."

He saw an opening. Took it.

He placed his hand on hers.

"I miss you so much," he said.

"House. . .don't . . ."

"Last Friday was—"

"Nice," Cuddy admitted.

"I was going to say mind-blowingly incredible. But nice works."

Cuddy chuckled.

"I don't know how you do it," he said, with a sigh.

"Do what?"

"Stay so…unflappable. It's like our breakup hasn't affected you at all."

She turned to him.

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said, House. And the bar has been set pretty high."

"I watch you," he said. "All the time. It's like you walk on air. Like nothing touches you."

"You don't watch close enough," she said. "Do you know that every day, at least once a day since our breakup, I go into the garage, sit in my car, and cry?"

House's mouth dropped open.

"You're shitting me."

"It's true," she said. "I'm just really good at putting on my game face. I've been a wreck."

They stared at each other.

"Cuddy, I. . ."

House reached over, and without considering the consequences, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her on the lips. She kissed back a bit, then pulled away.

"House, stop," she said.

"Why," he said, leaning in and kissing her again. This time, she allowed herself to enjoy the taste of his mouth, the feel of his rough face against hers, before pulling away again.

"We can't," she said. "We're in a hospital bar. I see at least four people I know."

"Then come home with me," he said urgently. He had a look on his face she knew all too well—turned on, wanting sex, wanting closeness, wanting _her_. Of course, the feeling was mutual.

But she snapped back to reality.

"Isn't your wife there?" she said bitterly.

His shoulders slumped a bit.

"Don't call her that," he said.

"She is, in fact, your wife. What am I supposed to call her?"

"Call her my mistake," he said. "Call her my stupid, self-destructive, impulsive, fucked up mistake."

"'I now pronounce you man and stupid, self-destructive, impulsive, fucked up mistake' doesn't quite roll off the tongue," Cuddy said.

He ignored her.

"Besides, she's not home," he said. "She went to Atlantic City with some friends."

"_Without_ her new husband? The Department of Immigration is going get suspicious."

"I'll have it annulled," he said, stubbornly.

"You can't have it annulled. They'll arrest you for fraud."

"The charges won't stick. I have a built in a defense," he said. "I was out of my mind, depressed, on drugs. She took advantage of me. It has the added bonus of being true."

He took her hand.

"Cuddy, pleeeease. I _need_ you."

She closed her eyes.

"I need you, too," she said.

"Then come home with me."

"I can't come home with you," she repeated.

"Why not?"

"Because there's been too much intimacy between us already. If I come home with you now, I'll never be able to leave."

"What's so horrible about that?" he said, looking into her eyes. "That's what I want. It's _all_ I want."

"House, I'm just not ready yet."

She stood up, got her coat. He popped up, stood behind her to help her put it on. Just for a moment, he pulled her toward him.

"Are you sure?" he whispered in her ear.

"No," she said, and rushed out of the bar.

#####

He paced. It was a stupid thing for a cripple to do, but he couldn't sit still. He had so much pent up energy, all he could do was limp around his apartment like a crazy man. There were days when he cursed his useless, mangled limb more than others. This was one of those days. He wanted to go running. He wanted to punch things. He wanted to scream. He could jerk off, but it would depress him too much. Besides, it wasn't an orgasm he was after. It was her.

There was a knock at the door.

And there she was, standing there, biting her lip, looking adorably shy, as though he had conjured her.

She gave a small, ironic shrug.

He didn't hesitate and he didn't speak. Instead, he pulled her toward him, kissed her, slamming her up against the wall. His mouth was hard against hers—his hands grasping, furtive. He tore away at her clothes, kissed her neck, her stomach, her breasts, ran his hands through her hair. And she was equally eager, unbuttoning his shirt, unsnapping his pants, clenching his ass as their bodies enmeshed.

He was good at foreplay. Good at letting his fingers glide to that perfect spot inside her. Good at licking her pussy. Good at playing with her nipples, making her scream. But they both were eager for the main event.

So he carried her to the bedroom and she wrapped her legs tightly around him and in moments he was inside her. And it wasn't just about friction and wetness and heat. It was about two people, trying to be as close as humanly possible.

After, she rolled off him, but still held his hand.

He looked at her adoringly.

"Hi," he said, still slightly out of breath.

And they both laughed. It was the first words they had spoken since she had arrived.

"Hi," she said back.

They were quiet for a moment.

"Do you remember what you said?" House said. "Back at Sullivan's? You said that if you came home with me. . ."

"I remember. . . ."

"So does this mean . . .?" His voice again full of hope.

"It means that when two people love each other as much as we do, they'd be idiots not to give it a second chance."

"And we're not idiots."

"Not generally."

He smiled, happier than he'd been in months. He kissed her hand.

He was thoughtful for a minute.

"We could try again, you know," he said.

"Let me at least catch my breath!" she cracked.

"No. I mean. . .try to. . .we could maybe. . . "

She understood.

"House, the odds of me getting pregnant, let alone keeping a baby at this point, are slim," she said.

"We could still try," he said stubbornly.

"You just want to have a lot of sex with me," she teased.

"I want to have a lot of _everything_ with you," he said.

"Good," she said, smiling and rolling on top of him. "Because it looks like you're stuck with me."

THE END


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